I am drinking, looking around, waiting. I don’t do much approaching, rather I will perch and play scrabble on my phone – waiting for a hot, cute, average, gross, or breathing dude to chat me up. I have a few moves up my sleeve. Like asking someone to light my cigarette. Or freakishly lighting someone’s cigarette who doesn’t even know I’m standing behind them.
Here’s a hilarious somewhat thought-provoking video about privacy on Facebook. It’s so strange how the Millennials are more or less comfortable giving a machine their personal information, but not another human being…
Greetings, ladies and gentlemen. I am here as a representative of the wild girls, the ones you still dream about. We are the women who were irresistible, whose double-time, exotic lives fascinated you to the extent that you let yourself fall in, just for a moment.
Try saying you are “looking for ski lessons while you ride BB on the DL with NSA”. You don’t need/want to know what that means, but it will work – every time.
Sup Bro. Im 5’11 140 blonde/blue slim and toned. Just a normal guy looking to mess around with someone soon. I can host anytime this week. I’m pretty laid back and chill, not into anything too crazy. Looking for guys under 35 who are VGL and fit. Must be Discrete. No endless e-mails, I’m real and don’t have time for games. I only play safe and I’m not into drugs.
This is the setup. Ms. Rubin is wending her sweet way thorough the West Village when she spots these two “hipsters” ahead of her. One of whom is wearing what is supposedly rather offensive attire. Ms. Julia Rubin snaps the following photo as evidence, as proof, as a way to say this person really went there…
This Friday night I watched Tom Six’s The Human Centipede (First Sequence) on my laptop as the sun was setting in the background. It was almost the best movie I’ve seen this year, falling second only to Tom Cruise’s Knight and Day.
Christopher Drew is different and thus kind of cooler than other famous teenagers, like Justin Bieber, because he is an artist’s artist. Which is to say, the dude is a little cuckoo. And that his priorities aren’t necessarily all about making mad bank and getting his dick wet. Dude writes poetry and distributes it via MySpace for goodness sake.
In Imperial Bedrooms, Clay buys two escorts –– a teenaged boy and girl –– and brings them to a house in Palm Springs. The boy is from down under, Australia. The girl from the Bible Belt, Memphis. At one point, Clay is “smeared in shit” and pushes his fist into the girl. She shrieks with shock until the boy stuffs her mouth with his cock, gagging her. Shortly thereafter, Clay tells us that “the devil was calling out to [the girl] but it didn’t scare her anymore because she wanted to talk to him.” All the while, in the background, a group of crickets buzz and hiss incessantly.
July 1776 folds into February 2008: Jefferson and Obama merge. The visual motifs of McGiney revitalize the verse of Whitman. The gold rush pioneer morphs into the post-recession innovator or agent of change.